


Summer

by ylc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Pining, Post-Break Up, doesn't really follow canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-17 05:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16089017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: Life isn’t like in the movies. But maybe happy endings do exist.





	Summer

**Author's Note:**

> I started working on this a couple of weeks ago and posted the first part on tumblr. I like the idea and I hope you’ll like the end product ;)  
> It was heavily inspired by the song by La Oreja de Van Gogh, Verano, hence the title :P  
> Enjoy!

_ What do you think you’re doing here?  _ Greg asks himself, standing outside the too fancy house, hands buried deep in his pockets, drenched to the bone. He ought to go home and forget all about this nonsense. What is he hoping to accomplish, anyway?

But he’s been thinking about it the whole day and he’s come all the way here, hasn’t he? And if he turns around now, if he goes home without at least having tried… well, he’ll always live with the doubt and the foolish hope that maybe, if he had gathered his courage… maybe if he had been just a little bit braver…

He needs to know for sure. Even if it kills him, he needs to know the truth.

So he rings the doorbell, heart hammering inside his chest, his stomach twisted in knots, nausea threatening to overcome him. It shouldn’t be like this; something so simple shouldn’t make him feel like he’s dying and yet--

He’s painfully aware of the pass of time and he wonders what he’ll do if there’s no one home. Worse, what will he do if Mycroft is not alone? Oh dear god, this was a terrible,  _ terrible  _ idea, why did he--?

The sounds of muffled steps put a stop to his whirling thoughts, stopping him from actually running away. He waits with bated breath for the door to open, although he supposes there’s a chance the person on the other side of the door won’t actually open once he sees he’s the one outside, but that seems like a very slim chance.

The door opens after a beat, revealing the man standing on the other side. Mycroft looks pretty much as Greg remembers him, although he supposes it hasn’t been long enough for any significant changes to have taken place. It’s true he has gained a little weight, easy to see in the more snuggle fit of his suit jacket over his midsection and his hairline seems determined to continue receding, but that hardly matters to Greg’s infatuated mind.

“Inspector Lestrade,” Mycroft greets cooly, the slightest slur in his words. “This is a surprise.”

Greg smiles a bit self deprecating. “Hello Mycroft,” he says, enjoying the ease with which the name rolls off his tongue. “Long time not see.”

Mycroft frowns just the slightest bit and opens his mouth to say something, but seems to think better of it, his eyes traveling down the street. In the rain it’s unlikely anyone will actually spot them, but if someone does, they’ll wonder why there’s a man standing outside Mycroft’s house, under the dreadful rain and why Mycroft simply won’t let him in. The rumours will fly and Mycroft hates being the subject of his neighbors’ gossiping.

With a sigh, he stands to the side to allow Greg entrance. Greg steps unnecessarily close when he enters and Mycroft stares at him with wide eyes full of… something, but he doesn’t step back, which Greg is willing to count as a win.

Greg makes his way into the living room, the distribution of the house still fresh on his mind despite the months that have passed. If he stands in the hallway for a little longer, he’s certain he’ll be able to recall their full last argument, including his rather undignified escape. He had hoped, at the time, that Mycroft would go after him, like the romantic interests usually do in those movies he sometimes watches on particularly lonely sundays, but naturally Mycroft hadn’t and that, he had thought, was the end of it.

Except, it seems, his foolish romantic heart wouldn’t simply let the matter go.

So here he is once more, standing in Mycroft’s too posh living room, looking around, familiarizing himself with the surroundings once again. Nothing has changed, except for the carpet: he wonders if the glass of wine he threw in the middle of their argument left such an scandalous stain that it simply had to be totally changed or if something else happened.

He notices there’s a bottle of scotch resting on the small table next to one of the chairs, an empty glass next to it. The bottle is half full, though and while Greg supposes there’s a chance that’s not the result of one day of drinking, he’s almost certain that is indeed the case.

“You’ve been drinking,” he accuses, finally placing the slight slur in Mycroft’s words. When he turns around to face his companion he sees all the signs are there, only that he somehow managed to miss them when he first saw him. There’s a healthy rose colour on his cheeks that quickly spreads to his neck and ears after being called out.

However, Mycroft recovers quickly. “What is it to you?” he asks definitely, pushing his way into the room, dropping himself at the chair once more and recovering his drink. He does not offer Greg one, nor does he gesture for him to sit and Greg stands in the middle of the living room awkwardly, shifting his weight from feet to feet.

After a too tense silence, Mycroft huffs, annoyed. “You’re dripping all over my carpet,” he hisses. “You might as well change into some dry clothes.” Before Greg can open his mouth to ask just what exactly he expects him to change into, Mycroft continues. “Your old clothes should be exactly where you left them.”

It’s curious, that Mycroft hasn’t cleared them out, but a quick glance in his direction convinces Greg of not asking any questions. He nods stiffly, hurrying in the direction of the bedroom, trying his damn best not to linger as he changes. The room looks pretty much the same as he remembers it, but it also feels oddly… vacant. Everything is in the same place he last saw it, he thinks, but when his curiosity gets the best of him and he peeks into Mycroft’s side table, he finds it mostly empty: the things he’d normally use-- his phone charger, his cigarette case, his lighter-- are gone.

Curious and curiouser.

He goes back into the living room, mind swirling with confused emotions. He finds Mycroft still sitting on the same chair, but the scotch bottle seems emptier now. Greg sits on one of chairs facing the fireplace and angles himself so he’s facing Mycroft.

“What are you doing here, Inspector?” Mycroft asks after a long beat of silence, nursing his drink slowly. He has yet to offer Greg a drink for himself and he’s beginning to seriously doubt he will. 

Greg stands up and heads for the drink cabinet, looking for a glass, mostly to buy himself time to answer. What is he doing here, indeed? The truth is at the tip of his tongue, but he suspects Mycroft won’t react well to it. “I was in the neighborhood,” he settles for answering, although it’s a batlant lie and Mycroft’s raised eyebrow tells him he knows as much.

“Indeed?” Mycroft asks, tone full of disbelief, watching as Greg pours himself a drink. “It has nothing to do with the date, then?” he continues calmly and Greg flinches just the slightest bit.

Greg sighs, dropping himself back on the chair. “You always saw right through me,” he says, trying not to sound bitter but failing miserably, raising his glass in a mockery of toast.

Mycroft tilts his head to the side, watching him carefully. “I see through everyone,” he agrees softly, dropping his eyes to his now empty glass. “But you… I always had trouble  _ interpreting  _ you.”

Greg doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing, swirling his glass absentmindedly.

The silence stretches between, the tension making Greg’s skin itch. In all truth, conversation wasn't their strongest point, it never flowed easily, but the silence wasn't uncomfortable, nor was the tension unbearable. 

It was a mistake coming here tonight and he ought to have known better. He's too old to believe life ever works out like it does in the movies and sometimes people are just not meant to be. 

But--

Deep down, Greg has always been a romantic, a believer of soulmates and happily ever afters. His relationship with Mycroft had progressed entirely too quickly-- or maybe not, if you considered how long they’ve known each other. But after nearly a decade of acquaintance, when they had finally came together, everything had seemed so natural: they slept together on the first date, against all rules Greg had for that sort of thing; Greg had proclaimed his undying love just a month later and had been thoroughly surprised (but quite pleased) when Mycroft had returned the sentiment. They moved in together shortly after and in the back of his mind there was always a voice asking what the hell was he doing: a man his age had no business acting like a reckless teen, imagining love could truly be this easy, that you just know when the right person has came along, that all you need is love as the song goes. 

God, he’ll never learn, will he? 

“Well, I suppose we might as well,” Mycroft announces suddenly, placing his glass on the table with a little too much force and standing up in one fluid movement although he sways a little on his feet then. 

“I’m sorry?” Greg says, feeling like he has missed some piece of the conversation and he swallows nervously when Mycroft comes to stand in front of him. Mycroft takes his glass away from him and Greg doesn't even try to resist, mesmerized by the intensity of his companion’s stare, a shiver running down his spine when Mycroft’s fingers brush his. 

His eyes close on their own accord when Mycroft's lips descend upon his, a soft moan escaping his lips even as his brain tries to make sense of what's happening. Failing to do so, all Greg can do is cling onto his companion for dear life, his hands fisting on the fabric of Mycroft's suit jacket, pulling the other man as close as possible. He's distantly aware of his glass shattering on the ground as Mycroft's arms come to wrap around him, so forsaking his hold of it and he thinks, a bit hysterically perhaps, that the carpet will need to be changed once more but soon enough he can't focus on anything that's not Mycroft's lips on his. They somehow manage to stumble out of the living room and into their room (or what used to be their room anyway) and Greg still has no idea what’s going on, but he’s a bit too busy trying to get rid of his partner’s clothes to worry overly much.

“Are you sure--?” he begins, because he figures it’s only polite to ask. Also, Mycroft has been drinking quite heavily, but Greg doubts this is result (at least for the most part) of said heavy drinking and while there’s a part of him that’s telling him this is a BAD idea, for the most part he can’t bring himself to care.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Mycroft growls, tearing his shirt open and Greg opens his mouth to protest because, well, it’s one of his nice shirts (nevermind he had completely forgotten about it) but then Mycroft’s lips have latched onto his collarbone and speaking (not to mention thinking) becomes an impossible task.

What follows is a well rehearsed dance: that’s the one thing they never seemed to have any trouble getting it right. It had been one of the selling points of the relationship, really, although Greg had thought he was much too old to let lust cloud his judgement. Still, he had let himself believe their compatibility in the bedroom signaled a compatibility in pretty much everything else.

In retrospective, he might have been mistaken.

Or perhaps not.  _ Talking  _ had never been easy, but that didn’t mean they didn’t communicate. Sometimes, words aren’t truly needed; sometimes just a look, a smile, a gesture can be a hundred times more telling than anything one can possibly say.

But maybe Greg had been reading the whole thing wrong. Maybe that had been the problem: he had thought they understood each other splendidly and maybe that wasn’t what was happening at all. 

He lies in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking about all this and more. It’d be so easy, he thinks, to stop worrying about it and just enjoy the moment, to curl next to his partner and bask in the warmth of the afterglow. But he can’t make his brain shut down, he can’t bring himself to fully relax. He wants to understand what this means and what happens next.

“I can hear you thinking all the way over here,” Mycroft murmurs, sounding slightly annoyed, rolling onto his side so he’s facing Greg. “Out with it already.”

Greg hesitates, staring at the space between their bodies. Even now, even after having been as close as two people can possible be, they’ve left some space between them once more and Greg can’t decide if it’s because nothing has truly changed or because they’re both too scared to make the first move.

Well, time to be brave, he supposes. “What was this, exactly?” he asks, not quite daring to meet Mycroft’s eyes. His companion huffs, rolling onto his back, putting even more distance between them and Greg can feel his heart shattering inside his chest.

“Way to ruin the afterglow, Inspector,” Mycroft says, in his usual dismissive, cold tone. 

Greg sighs, figuring he has his answer. He nods to himself and sits up, searching for his clothes. He’s vaguely aware of the set of drenched clothes he left on the laundry basket earlier and he wonders if he ought to take those with him too, so he’ll left no trace of his presence here. It won’t erase his mistake, but maybe--

“Wait,” Mycroft says, reaching for him, not quite touching. He sounds… off, somehow, but Greg can’t begin to interpret it. “I… I don’t know what to say,” he finishes lamely, his hand dropping next to him once more.

Greg takes a deep breath, willing himself to continue being brave, even if it means just leaving himself open to be hurt once more. “I think,” he begins, sitting on the edge of the bed once more, not looking at Mycroft directly. “We both were feeling a bit nostalgic today. Given the date… I suppose it’s only to be expected,” he pauses, looking at his companion, searching for confirmation, but Mycroft’s cold exterior is back and so Greg soldiers on. “But for me at least… it was also more than that. I… I’ve missed you a great deal, Mycroft.”

A long tense silence follows and just when Greg is about to give up, carry on getting dressed and leave once and for all, Mycroft speaks. “As have I,” he confesses softly, almost reluctantly, his expression guarded but his eyes reflecting a vulnerability Greg has rarely seen. “However I… I’m not sure if doing this again… if getting  _ involved  _ once more is a good idea.”

Greg doesn’t speak, not quite sure how he feels about that. He knows what he wants, but relationships are always a two way street and if Mycroft isn’t sure…

“I don’t think I can do this again,” Mycroft says, sounding defeated. “Losing you once was… more than enough.”

Greg hums, because well… he’s not eager to go through another heartbreak, that’s for sure, but-- “I understand,” he murmurs dejectedly, standing up once more. “I’m sorry for… I should have stayed away.”

He continues dressing in silence, thinking about how true his words are. He should have stayed away, because this is just going to hurt them both further. He tells himself he’s too old for this foolishness once more, he’s way too old to believe love can truly conquer it all.

And yet--

“Perhaps,” Mycroft says suddenly, startling him by how close he is. When did this happen? “It might be a terrible idea indeed, but I must confess… I want to give it another try.” He frowns, looking uncertain. “Of course, this might just be my hormones talking,” he adds with a wry smile and Greg chuckles.

“Perhaps,” he agrees. “those have certainly played a role in our whole relationship,” he smiles, stepping closer, tentatively reaching for Mycroft’s hand. “But I’d like to think there’s more to it. We wouldn’t be here if that was just it, would we?”

Mycroft’s frown deepens. “I think that’s exactly how we ended up here,” he states, pointing at their still scattered clothes and Greg has the decency to blush.

“I didn’t mean here  _ here, _ ” he says, a mighty blush spreading across his cheeks. “I meant-- I just couldn’t stop thinking about you, about  _ us.  _ So even if… I had to take the chance. I had to come and see you.”

Mycroft seems to think about this for a beat, head tilted to the side as he ponders Greg’s words. “I intended going looking for you earlier today,” he confesses finally. “I just… I didn’t feel brave enough.”

Greg isn’t sure what to answer to that, so he just hums in acknowledgment. Mycroft smiles at him, a small tentative thing that makes Greg’s heart flutter and he closes the distance between them, wrapping his arms around his partner’s middle. “I’m not exactly sure what went wrong last time,” Mycroft murmurs softly and Greg hums, burying his face on his neck. “But I’ll try my best to make it work, although I’m not sure--”

Greg silences him with a kiss then. “Trying our best should be enough,” Greg says with conviction. “It’s all I ask for, really.”

It seems, perhaps, a bit too easy. Greg has no doubt there are a lot of discussions they need to have in the future, compromises to be done, agreements to be reached. But for now, knowing they both want the same thing and are willing to work for it, seems enough.

Life might not be like the movies and happily ever afters are actually works in progress. And all that matters, is the willingness to try.

That, he firmly believes.

**Author's Note:**

> So… thoughts anyone?  
> I think I lost sight of where this was exactly going, mostly because I wanted a happy (happyish) ending, even if it felt at some point that a sad (or maybe open) one would have worked a bit better. I like it though and I hope you do too ;)  
> Also, the song is way too good. Listen to it. It’s perfect, really.  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought?  
> English is not my native language, so any mistakes you find, please point them out!  
> You can also find me in [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/)


End file.
